


Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire

by wistfulpisces



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Fluff, Inspired by Music, M/M, Songfic, Time Skips, the ending is very sweet I promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-15 11:20:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13029957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wistfulpisces/pseuds/wistfulpisces
Summary: In their respective lifetimes, John and Sherlock have had very different attitudes toward Christmas.Inspired by “The Christmas Song”.





	Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire

**Author's Note:**

> I was thinking about the 1961 Nat King Cole version of “The Christmas Song” while trying to get into the festive mood about a week ago, and thus, this fic came about. Parts of this were also inspired by some tweets from the Contacts.
> 
> I wish you the merriest of holiday seasons and I sincerely hope you enjoy the fic. Please feel free to leave kudos and comments.

_Chestnuts roasting on an open fire_  
_Jack Frost nipping at your nose_  
_Yuletide carols being sung by a choir_  
_And folks dressed up like Eskimos_

John had always loved Christmastime. Everything about it: the presents, the first glimpses of snow and ensuing snowball fights with Harry and the other kids in the neighbourhood, decorating the tree with far too many baubles and hanging tinsel in various places around the house, bobsledding down hills whenever their parents would let them, his family roaming the streets on Christmas Eve to gaze wondrously at some of the elaborate light displays strung up on house fronts, the food – oh god, the _food._

The thing he loved most, unlike what he’d gotten used to telling anyone who cared enough to ask, wasn’t the ornate decorations in the street or the universal feeling of geniality that could be felt everywhere from coffee shops to university halls. Privately, the thing he had always loved most about Christmastime was the fact that it was the singular time of year when his family – his small, dislocated, combative family – begrudgingly put aside their issues, both petty and serious, and were a real family.

Despite Sherlock’s view of his flatmate as idealistic in the extreme, John had never believed that real families were happy all the time – or, by necessity, even particularly happy at all, really – or that they never fought, never yelled spiteful things at each other or did things they regretted. He believed that real families had problems, some of which they talked about and perhaps some that they didn’t, but they were there for each other when it mattered the most. When the chips were truly down, they didn’t dodge calls or shut doors or leave each other with nothing but icy words and faces growing frosty in the biting wind.

John had always loved Christmas, until he didn’t so much anymore. At least – not for the same reasons.

Sherlock had always hated Christmas: loathed it with the burning passion of November Fifth. He wished that all holidays were only as dull as Bonfire Night.

But Christmas was not. In his youth, Christmas was always drawing rooms crowded with unfamiliar relatives still wearing thick coats, the damp glow of eggnog and hearty open fires not quite enough to dispel the bone-chilling drafts that permeated the lonely corridors and excruciatingly polite conversations. He envied the children he saw playing in the street, the elderly choirs who no longer bothered to knock on the Holmes’ formidable front door, and the bright and lively merriment he had somehow been relegated to witnessing only through open curtains.

Once, very early on, he might have been audacious enough to sneak out to play with other children – much more simple, _common_ children – before the intellectual and social distance between them and himself became fully apparent. He may have even plucked up the courage and asked Mummy for permission; he would never know. Before too long it became impossible, as he grew more resolute in his self-imposed exile. Besides, Mummy would have scolded him if she had so much as suspected that he intended to treat the other children as specimens for observation, merely instruments in the course of an experiment. She was always suspicious of him for some reason or another.

Sherlock always hoped the walls were thick enough that his parents – or, god forbid, Mycroft – never heard him playing _We Wish You a Merry Christmas_ on his violin every Christmas Eve, standing alone in his bedroom. He had only ever played it to himself, after all.

It was several years before he got around to devising an experiment to test the theory. He then discovered, to his absolute, mortifying dismay, that he had put more faith in the thickness of the walls and their soundproofing capabilities than was deserved. His family would probably have heard every note.

* * *

_Everybody knows a turkey and some mistletoe_  
 _Help to make the season bright_  
 _Tiny tots with their eyes all aglow_  
 _Will find it hard to sleep tonight_

“So, are you okay?”

“Oh! Are we doing conversation today? It really is Christmas!”

John resisted the urge to sigh; he hated when Mary was snarky. He’d been doing far too much of that lately, letting the easily exasperated, irritated parts of himself show themselves too quickly. Maybe Sherlock really was rubbing off on him. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

He didn’t know whether she always meant it intentionally, but whenever Mary was sarcastic, it felt snide and condescending, like there was some basic truth about their relationship – or, hell, the universe itself – of which he was hopelessly ignorant. Frankly, it hurt.

Mentally steeling himself, John reached into the pocket of his trousers and withdrew the flash drive his wife had given him. The device that was the key to her past life _(was it still her past?)_ and the morally suspect person she had been then. He fiddled with it mindlessly, turning it over and over in his grip, watching as the letters written on it disappeared and reappeared with each movement. Oh, how John wished he could have made the lies she had told disappear with such ease.

Mary shut the book she hadn’t really been reading with a soft snap, sensing that the intentions behind their impending conversation were serious.

“Now?” She tried not to sound as vexed as she felt. _Why couldn’t he have given me this one day, just one more day of peace, however strained it might feel? It’s Christmas, for god’s sake._ Mary watched as the motion of her husband’s hand came to a stop and he nodded. “Seriously? Months of silence and we’re gonna do  _this_ now?”

There John was again, struggling not to sigh.

“So, have you read it?”

He couldn’t believe how calm she sounded, asking such a loaded question. When she had relinquished the flash drive, Mary’s voice had been thin, vulnerable, revealing that she had been on the brink of tears. Now it was matter-of-fact.

“Would you come here a moment?” John said, firmly but not unkindly.

Though his head was bowed, he saw that his wife had shaken her head. A brief flash of anger flared within him.

“No. Tell me – have you?”

God, why couldn’t she ever do as he asked without argument? He was willing to have a real conversation with her, in spite of _everything_ , and still, she pushed for things to be her way.

“Just –” _Calm down, John. You need your head for this._ “– come here.” _Just this once._

By some miracle, she did, carefully bringing herself to stand before her husband. The physical evidence of her pregnancy was so apparent that John couldn’t help but stare at it for a few moments.

“I’ve thought long and hard about what I want to say to you.” His voice was so quiet it seemed to surprise them both. He drew in a breath to steady himself as they made eye contact. “These are prepared words, Mary.”

Her eyebrows pulled together just slightly enough that it distracted him, and he thought about how ridiculous an outsider would have thought their having this conversation was – especially on Christmas Day, in Sherlock’s parents’ home. It was decorated excessively, as though the person who had done so had thought that if enough effort had been made, then the act of simply occupying the same space as the tinsel, the lights, and the wreath above the fireplace would bring festive cheer for all.

Sadly, that was not the case. John stood in a room with sunlight streaming through the windows, a crackling fire by his side and his beautiful wife before him, the woman who was carrying his child, and he felt frustrated, exhausted and resigned. He did not feel particularly cheerful.

“I’ve chosen these words with care.”

 _Stop stalling, you idiot_ , he thought to himself. He suspected that Mary was thinking the same thing, though had schooled her features to conceal it.

“Okay,” was all she said, perhaps with a tinge of trepidation.

“The problems of your past are your business.” A beat. “The problems of your future are my privilege.”

The words registered with her in an instant and John had a private moment of something that should have been joyful relief, but instead felt awfully close to triumph. A small voice in the back of his mind reminded him of Harry, when they were children, telling him spitefully that she hated how like an elephant he was, hated how he never truly let an argument go. John watched as his wife’s face crumpled into happy, incredulous tears.

“It’s all I have to say. It’s all I need to know,” he said truthfully. He threw the flash drive into the fire beside them and they both watched in silence as it began to burn.

John cleared his throat as he turned to face her once more. “No, I didn’t read it.”

Mary started to cry openly, her eyes shining while he stared into her face, searching for proof that she knew. For recognition of the deeper meaning in his earlier words.

Not yet, then. Perhaps later, when she was replaying the scene in her mind, reexamining the crucial details before she fell asleep – perhaps then she would realise. Good.

Mary pulled him in to share a sweet kiss, citing a sprig of mistletoe as an irrefutable tradition.

Sherlock noticed John enter the sitting room before his father exited it and shut the door behind him. Sherlock had, fortunately or otherwise, a particular ability to notice John at all times, even at a crime scene or in a crowd of suspects. He had always noticed John.

Resisting the urge to reopen the door so as to eavesdrop on their undoubtedly tense conversation – or to simply go right ahead and follow John into the room – Sherlock strode over to his father, keeping his eyes trained on the man.

“Those two,” his father started, the question already visible on his face, “they alright?”

“Well, you know,” Sherlock said vaguely, his mind cycling through what he knew of John and Mary’s history, and the words John had shared with him after they had discussed whether he would read the contents of the flash drive, “they’ve had their ups and downs.”

His father seemed to accept this, and they both walked away.

With some ruefulness, Sherlock went back to the kitchen and made himself a cup of tea, stealing a gingerbread biscuit from a basketful that his mother had made. Being a woman who saw everything, she spared him a disapproving glance but said nothing. Sherlock’s mother was probably just glad to see him eating: he had always been, for the most part, uninterested in food, and she was the worrying type.

Sherlock loved his parents. He always had, but within himself he knew that he loved them much more in his adulthood, not least because they had mellowed considerably. When they had downsized their home, it marked a shift in their attitudes, both as parents and as people: they became more emotionally invested than ever – too invested, actually – in their children’s lives, and finally cut ties with many of the associates and distant relatives of affluence and civility who, in Sherlock’s memories of his youth, had previously hung about like a prolonged and especially dreary winter.

Despite how much he loved his parents and, though he disliked admitting it, enjoyed their company nowadays, a large part of Sherlock longed to experience again a particular Christmas of a few years ago – in real time, not only in the sensory confines of his mind palace.

Seated in an armchair in the kitchen, he cast his mind back to that warm, awkward, glorious Christmas they had celebrated in Baker Street. John had been sporting one of his least atrocious holiday jumpers, content in a way that Sherlock knew meant he had recently reconciled with his sister; Mrs. Hudson had been her usual, wonderfully sprightly self, with an added loose quality attributed to a dash of good brandy; and Lestrade of all people had been jovial, even enjoyable, company. Even Molly – pitifully sweet, eternally accomodating Molly, wide-eyed and naïve as an infant doe – had been an interesting guest.

Part of him wished that the Woman had not interrupted, had been gracious enough to spare her intrusion in order to grant him that day, that singular day further of peace before his attention was stolen and his priorities shifted. He hadn’t known at the time of the tribulations that laid in his future.

Or of the value he would place on that memory to help him through many an icy, solitary night.

He followed his brother outside, reading in the many tells he had become accustomed to deciphering in Mycroft that he was positively itching for a cigarette.

Some time later, he checked his watch, deciding that he should return within alongside his brother. He was a little shaken by Mycroft’s words, especially given the nature of his plans for the afternoon. Merry Christmas, indeed.

Hurrying towards the sitting room, he stopped just short of rushing inside, instead cracking the door open a touch and peering in. Sherlock’s stomach swooped as if he were disorientated when he spied John and Mary in an embrace. He shoved the queasy feeling aside, attributing it to the very real danger he and John were to face in a matter of hours.

He very deliberately ignored the kind of dark satisfaction he felt in knowing that the couple before him wouldn’t spend much more of the day together.

Watching as John lowered his now-unconscious wife into an armchair, he strode into the room briskly.

“Don’t drink Mary’s tea.”

Though he exited the room as rapidly as he had burst into it, Sherlock could still feel John’s horrified, accusatory glower burning through the back of his head.

* * *

_They know that Santa’s on his way_  
 _He’s loaded lots of toys and goodies on his sleigh_  
 _And every mother’s child is gonna spy_  
 _To see if reindeer really know how to fly_

John watched, feeling his heart swell with incredible tenderness, as Rosie and Sherlock sat on the kitchen floor before the oven, Sherlock explaining to his adopted daughter how the heat worked to cook and harden the gingerbread biscuits they had made together. Rosie stared in wonder, not at the heating process, but at Sherlock, whose voice had taken on a particularly gentle quality that had developed naturally and was reserved only for her. Sherlock would normally have been irritated when pressed to explain something he saw as so simple or trivial, but now his eyes and meticulous gestures were alive with enthusiasm.

John watched the marvel before him and wished, as he had so many times since meeting Sherlock, for a mind palace. He wanted to remember this moment in its entirety: it was a rarity that he knew at any given time that he was completely and honestly happy.

When the biscuits were removed from the oven and had cooled sufficiently, the three of them set out to decorate, with Rosie seated on a high stool between the two men. As she lightheartedly criticised the pattern Sherlock had piped onto a star-shaped biscuit for looking more like a spiderweb than a Christmas star, John mused how much she had taken on Sherlock’s own qualities as well as his own. He giggled at Sherlock’s mock-affronted expression, his merriment becoming full-blown laughter during the ensuing chaos.

A while later, all three of them surveying their work with icing in their hair, on their clothes and on their faces, they concurred aloud that the gingerbread biscuits looked spectacular. Mrs. Hudson added that her belated presence had certainly had some say in that. John wholeheartedly agreed.

Sherlock stood in the bathroom afterward, his daughter’s head bowed in the sink as he worked shampoo through it. She was chattering to him about the presents she hoped Santa would bring her tomorrow and all of the things she loved about Christmas.

A broad grin crept over his face, thankful for this brilliant, joyful child, for her father and the woman who had effectively become their daughter’s grandmother. Even on his worst days, in black moods and frustration so great he took frequent walks to Regent’s Park in order to spare Rosie, he loved them more than he could say.

He thought about how wonderful it was, how lovely, how incredibly lucky he had been, to stumble into a man looking to share a flat and willing to solve crimes with him. He delighted in the thought of the little family they had created for themselves, the four of them, in all its nonconformity and laughter and strangeness.

Despite everything and against all odds, they had found each other – and, in doing so, they had found true happiness.

_And so I’m offering this simple phrase_  
_To kids from 1 to 92_  
_Although it’s been said many times, many ways_  
_Merry Christmas to you_


End file.
